The corners of the room lampshade every shadow.
Full of answers, they resemble everything.
When the police found your pack I was afraid to open it.
You'd filled it that morning with clothes and books for the week.
I untied from the handle a bandana we'd bought in town that morning.
At night it reaches down from the closet shelf like spring growth.
A vine reaching in every direction.
In photos the knapsack is as long as your torso.
Outside the Orthodox chapel: colleagues, friends, priests, a diplomat.
Wreaths of fresh flowers, candle wicks sunk in wax.
The mortician dresses your body in khakis and a silk blouse.
Nothing that we transform becomes you.
I wash your bandana and wear it as I walk without you.
A city that could be any city: unexceptional except for the arriving.
We do it alone, Katie; we mark among the living ghosts of those we love.
We never quite make our peace.